


Cleithrophobia

by orphan_account



Series: One Shot Prompts [1]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Agent As Unsub, Reid As Unsub, rape is implied - no descriptions, violence is included but its not exactly graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:23:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7008670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dead flies had gathered in a heap between the windowpane and the screen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleithrophobia

Five months. Twenty two weeks. One hundred fifty two days. Three thousand six hundred ninety six hours. Two hundred twenty one thousand seven hundred sixty minutes. Thirteen million three hundred five thousand six hundred seconds.

Spencer's brain supplied the details of every last second that he'd spent in captivity. Most of that time he spent chained to the bed. He was lucky enough to have a digital clock sitting on the nightstand next to him. The room around him reminded Spencer of his own real bedroom, the way the bed was pushed into the corner opposite of the door, one painted shut window above and to the right him. Dead flies had gathered in a heap between the windowpane and the screen.

Spencer wasn’t sure what it was about him, but something was keeping him alive. The unsub hadn’t disposed of him yet. Almost as if Spencer was a form of release the man couldn’t get from killing. The unsub needed consistency, a constant that kept him grounded. Otherwise he’d fly off the handle, and then if was only a matter of time before he made mistake. As long as the agent complied, as long as he did every little thing he was told to do without question, he would stay alive. He was tired of the torture, he didn’t care what he had to do anymore.

At the end of every week, the man holding him there brought home a new victim. And he made Spencer watch what he did to them. And after a the first month, he made Spencer participate. Luckily, only in the disposal at first. It was awful, but Spencer was thankful he was being let outside, at least for the couple hours it took to dig the grave. But two weeks ago, he’d made Spencer kill the victim. Gave him a gun and said, “If you do this, I’ll go easy on you tonight.” The first time, he flat out refused, only pulling the trigger after being screamed at. Spencer didn’t want anyone to ever endure what he went through that night. The second time, he pulled the trigger without any hesitation. He justified it by telling himself it was for his own survival, that a gunshot to the head now was better than hours of torture later. He was showing them mercy.

But he never (and Spencer thanked a God he didn’t believe in) had to participate in the torture. He was content with sitting back and watching from a safe distance.

Occasionally, he did feel as though he should just give up. But even if he didn’t make it out alive, the body count would still be piling up. He had to believe that at any moment his colleagues, his friends, would burst through the door and rescue him. And then, and only then, would him and the countless people suffering around him get justice for what’s happened.

Most days, if he wasn’t able to sleep endlessly, Spencer spent his time staring at wall with nothing but blank thoughts flowing through his mind; anything at all to keep him distracted and away from all the chaos. Most nights, Spencer spent his time in the unsubs’s bed, doing absolutely anything to please his captor, absolutely anything to keep himself alive. He didn’t need to struggle anymore. In fact, he almost liked it. The warmth pooling in his gut allowed a pleasant feeling to flow through him, and he was thankful for the mind numbing distraction. Much better than the bleeding he saw behind his eyelids, anyways.

Spencer was thankful for his ability to sleep anywhere, anytime. But there were certain nights that his body refused and he was left lying awake, sore and exhausted. Spencer knew that within the next few hours, his captor would either drag him down to the basement where another victim was tied up, or he would drag him out to the car and tell him they’re moving again. Spencer didn’t want to move again. This was the fourth house he’d been held in, and while it was out in the middle of nowhere, he liked his bedroom. He liked the fresh air and he liked looking up at the night sky with no light pollution. He’d do anything to go home, and hopping around was only lessening those chances. Not to mention he didn’t like being drugged. Anything could happen to him while unconscious, and he was terrified that if he went under, he might never wake up again. He was unsure if they were even in Virginia anymore. For all he knew, he could be halfway across the country. Or perhaps not even in the country at all.

The agent’s wandering thoughts began slow down as his brain couldn’t provide anything worth paying attention to. He swore the walls were spinning when he opened his eyes. How long had it been since he’d eaten? Days, maybe, or so it felt. His throat was sore and dry and he longed for anything at all to sooth it. He thought back to the dead flies once again, and wondered if he would end up just like them. Dying of starvation whilst trapped between walls, looking out to an open world that’s just barely out of reach.

That thought terrified him and he felt the dry lump in his throat grow larger. Spencer didn’t mind small enclosed spaces so long as he knew he could get out. It was the act of being trapped that paralyzed him.

The way his hands were tied above his head gave a dull aching feeling in his shoulders he knew he would never really recover from, and the skin on his ankles were rubbed raw. But he had to dryly chuckle at the thought of his pain; he saw blood soaked clothes and heard choked screaming on a nearly daily basis, and here he was complaining about a slight pain. It was almost ridiculous.

The thought of his pain was ripped from his mind when he heard the squeak of the bedroom door, although he didn’t react physically. He stayed as still as he had been for the past few hours.

“I’ve got a pretty one for you today,” his captor said, and Spencer could almost smell his foul breath from across the room.

He was used to the routine by now. The unsub untied his hands from the bed frame only to wrap layers of duct tape around his hands and wrists once again. Then the rope had been removed from his ankles and he was yanked into a standing position. It was useless to try and run away, even if he could use his hands; Spencer was far too weak. He felt as if he would pass out at any moment, even when he had been lying still.

His stomach growled loudly and he twisted in pain as his captor roughly took hold of his hair, pulling down as if Spencer could stop the noises coming from his body. And he sure as hell tried despite knowing the impossibility of it. It took all of what little strength he had to keep himself on his feet. All he his focus was on moving one foot in front of the other as he was led down to the basement. On his way, Spencer managed to get a better look out of a window; it was storming now and he couldn’t see far enough in the distance to tell just how far away from civilization he really was.

At the bottom of the steps, Spencer’s heart froze. From behind, he thought he knew exactly who he was looking at. Jennifer Jareau. A slim frame, long blonde hair. Her blue sweater clung tightly to her skin. He kept his mouth shut while the girl in front of him was wailing, noises muffled by the gag in her mouth. Spencer’s captor dropped him down in a chair to the left of the new victim, and when he saw the girl’s face, a disturbing thought popped up in his head. He was unsure whether or not he was glad that it wasn’t J.J.

J.J, a great agent as well as a great friend, had been the only thing standing between him and the unsub three months ago. After what happened years before with Tobias, they agreed never to split up again, but that day, she broke her promise. She left him alone to investigate a noise, told Spencer that everything was that, that she’d be right back. Of course he wasn’t her fault that he’d been kidnapped once again, but Spencer needed someone to blame. If she had just listened to him for once, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

So, of course, it was great that it wasn’t his friend, he didn’t want anything bad to her happen to her, especially not now that she’s got two children to take care of. But Spencer was just so angry.

He watched in complete silence as his captor set up his equipment. The girl begged and pleaded to Spencer, praying for him to help. Sure, his hands were bound, but he wasn’t tied to the chair. He at least had the chance at running away, not that he’d ever try that again however. He simply just sat there, watching. Normally, the unsub would threaten him, reminding him of exactly what he’d do to him if he didn’t keep his eyes on the girl at all times. He didn’t need to now, Spencer complied willing.

Ten minutes into the screaming is when a blow torch was received from his pile of tools. When he flicked it on and waved it in front of the blonde girl, she immediately went silent, too terrified to even scream. Spencer’s thoughts wandered to J.J. again and he wondered what she’d do in the situation. Would she scream? His eyes locked onto the flame as he imagined what his friends skin would look like as it burned.

This was wrong, he knew everything about this was so wrong , but he could almost feel something in his brain snapping. Too tired to scream anymore, and being stuck strapped down for hours on end, he needed something, anything at all to release his emotions, his frustration.

Suddenly, Spencer’s eyes gazed upward and locked with his captors. And as if he could see it in Spencer’s eyes, he dropped the torch back to the table and stepped slowly towards his pet. A knife fit neatly in his hands as he cut away the tape and practically ripped Spencer from his chair. No leading was necessary, Spencer went straight for the table. Something about the weight of the torch in his hands just felt too fitting to him.

It wasn’t until he turned towards the girl, her wide blues eyes staring up at him in terror, that she began to scream once more. Spencer leaned forward, flicking to torch on and he pressed it to her skin. As he watched her writhe in agony, he felt his lips move around the soft whisper.

“It’s okay, J.J. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”


End file.
